


Episode 3: Personas

by orphan_account



Series: Fires of Purgatory - Season 1 [3]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Canon Rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 07:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18256391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: As Oliver and Laurel adapt to their new life and discover dangerous secrets about the past five years, Moira Dearden Queen revisits her roots as Moira Dearden, half-sister to Lionel Luthor, who is as vile and vicious as Lionel himself. In flashbacks, Oliver defends Laurel from some of Fyers’ men and arouses the interest of Fyers.





	Episode 3: Personas

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Ah, the last of the episodes I had written. If people want me to continue this, please tell me.

 

Oliver was tense the entire drive back to the mansion, and Laurel could only put one hand on his knee and give him a comforting squeeze to show she still fully supported his decision to not honor Robert, who they both knew had done more than a few monstrous things in the past. “Ollie, what you plan to do with that building, it’s a wonderful idea,” Laurel told him. “I’m sure Malcolm and Tommy will be very happy to have Rebecca honored in that way.” Laurel tilted her head. “When you took the realtor aside the other day, it was to put this in motion, wasn’t it?”  

Oliver nodded, giving a light chuckle and as a result, loosening up. “Yes, it was,” he told her. “Well, that, and arranging for the basics to be delivered ASAP so we didn’t have to keep your parents housing us for too long.” The basics for their own apartment in this case were a simple armchair and loveseat in the main room and a box springs and mattress (no bedframe, set directly on the floor) in the bedroom. Oliver had already transferred his own cash reserves, and what remained of the offshore accounts of his father’s, into a new account under his name, to avoid his mother pulling something. He didn’t think she would, since even she would recognize what he was doing would bring the Queen name more honor than hiding the truth would, despite her current anger levels at Oliver not ‘honoring his legacy’, which is what Oliver suspected would be the charge in the upcoming confrontation.  

Pulling into the drive outside of the mansion, Oliver cut off the engine and just sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, still contemplating what he had done. It was one thing to talk in private with Laurel about doing what he did, but he hadn’t expected to have the guts to go through with it. He had thought he might freeze and then lie to the masses. But he had done it, and he felt as though a weight had been lifted off him. “Thank you for being there for me today,” he said, looking over at his fiancé, his partner, the woman he had loved for half of his life, even if it had been shallower in past years. Blue eyes met green and Laurel smiled softly at him.  

“Ollie, you never have to thank me for being there,” Laurel told him, leaning over and kissing his cheek. “We’re partners in life, wherever that life takes us, remember?” The smile became somewhat tinged with sadness as she added, “Besides, you’re the only man I’d trust after everything we’ve been through. I’m glad to support you, especially when what you’re trying to do is for the good of our city.” She opened her door. “Now, come on, we should get our bags put away in this thing before Moira comes storming after us. We don’t want to be trying to pack with that glare of hers on us the entire time.”  

“True enough,” Oliver replied, chuckling mirthlessly. The two of them got out of the car and entered the mansion to find Raisa and one of the other staff putting the last of their bags in the main foyer. Raisa was looking somewhat upset as she did so, and Oliver went to the woman who had been like a mother to him when his own had failed to do so. “Raisa, what is it?” he asked, even as Laurel grabbed a couple of her bags to put in the car.  

“Nothing, Mr. Oliver,” Raisa replied, but Oliver could hear the sad note in her voice. “It’s just…” she began, but stopped and after a few moments, she was clinging onto Oliver, sobbing. Oliver’s arms circled around her, even as she descended into a torrent of Russian. As he listened, Oliver’s lips thinned. Apparently, his mother was being far more unreasonable then he had expected and had decided Raisa’s influence was partially to blame for Oliver’s recent actions (and to be fair, Oliver was trying to be a better person in part because Raisa always told him he could be better than his parents, though it was never stated anywhere others could hear). Raisa had just taken a call from Moira informing her that she was being let go and that she was to be out of the mansion by the end of the day. Oliver closed his eyes and opened them again, pulling away so he could look Raisa in the eye.  

“Raisa,” he told her quietly, “you will  _always_  have a job with me. Neither Laurel and I can cook worth a damn, you know that. If my mother is foolish enough to let you go because she thinks you’re a bad influence, then I’m going to make sure you can keep on ‘influencing me’ by hiring you. We’ll set you up in an apartment in our building, and you can bring your family there, too. Don’t worry, Raisa. You’ll not want for a job as long as I’m alive and have money.”  

“You are a good boy, with a good heart,” Raisa told Oliver, wetly. Oliver smiled and kissed the maid on her forehead. “I will collect my things and meet you at your new home, Mr. Oliver.” Oliver smiled and watched as the maid headed off to do just as she had said before his smile dropped, and he grabbed up a few of his own bags with unnecessary force. As he headed out to the car, something of what happened must have shown on his face, because Laurel met him halfway, inquiring what had happened. In short sentences, Oliver informed his fiancé of what his mother had done and his counter-action for it. Laurel’s lips thinned at Moira’s action, but she gave her fiancé a soft smile when he told her about his solution.  

“She’s right you know,” Laurel told him as they put the last of their bags in their car. “You are a good man, with a good heart. If you can care about what happens to Raisa because your mother is losing it over the broken image of the ‘perfect royal family of Star City’, and what happens to people like those steel workers, then you are already a better man than your father was, Ollie. Don’t you forget that.” She kissed him softly on the lips, and pulled away with the question of, “So, are we leaving or are you planning to wait for your mother?”  

“This is a confrontation that is going to happen no matter what,” Oliver said quietly as he leaned on the trunk of their car. “Better to do it now, on the privacy of the Queen property, than do it somewhere that a damned paparazzi could film or otherwise record it. We know what she’s going to come at me with, and I only have one thing in my arsenal I can counter her with.” Laurel nodded in grim acknowledgement. So, the two waited, until finally, the town car carrying Thea, Walter, and Moira arrived and disgorged its passengers. The driver of the town car pulled away to park the car, while Oliver merely waited as his family approached him.

Neither Walter nor Moira looked all that pleased with what Oliver had done, while Thea was looking at Oliver as if really seeing him for the first time. They stopped a few feet from where Oliver and Laurel were leaning against the trunk of their car. After a few, tense moments of silence, Oliver tilted his head and said, “Well, go ahead. Fire your opening shot, Mom.”  

Moira was giving him perhaps the most disgusted glare she had ever mustered. “Do you know what you have done?” she asked quietly. “Do you understand how much work went into preparing this legacy for your father’s memory? How many hurdles we’ve had to jump through? The backlash we’re going to face now that you’ve brought up ancient history? You’ve tainted this family with your words, Oliver. Thea is going to have to go to school with that hanging over her head, Walter is going to have to deal with being on the defensive with this hanging like a dark cloud over any business negotiations, and you and Laurel will join me in being a laughing stock at any society get-togethers. Our strongest asset was presenting a united front to the press, to the world, and now you’ve destroyed any chance of doing that. Do you have  _anything_  to say?” By the time she finished, Moira was feeling rather winded. Walter, for his part, was watching his wife in concern. She had never acted like this in his experience, always managing to come across perfectly poised in any scenario.  

Oliver, for his part, said, “Yes, I do know what I’ve done. I chose to be a better man than Robert Queen ever was. You decided to invest far too heavily into the legacy of a man who repeatedly cheated on you, so don’t expect me to feel sorry for you ignoring ‘ancient history’ in favor of sainting a man who was nothing of the sort.” Thea had gasped at the information about Robert, while Walter was looking shocked. “Oh, and Robert told me all about his cheating on the  _Gambit_  to convince me I needed to get serious or I’d lose Laurel, so don’t bother denying it,” Oliver added as Moira opened her mouth to do just that. “As for the backlash, well, I doubt Laurel and I will face any of it, and people aren’t going to blame a teenage girl for the actions of her father. You and Walter, on the other hand… well, I believe the common term is that karma is a bitch and that what goes around, comes around.  

“As far as the rest of your ravings, and that is what they are, Mom, whether you believe so or not,” Oliver continued, ignoring his mother’s reddening features, “I could have done much more serious harm to Queen Consolidated than I did if I so wished. Your PR department will manage some spin, like you and Walter were unaware of everything that happened with Robert, and you’ll find some way to come back with minimal fuss. But that wouldn’t have happened if I revealed what  _really_  happened to Robert Queen five years ago.”  

Confusion flitted across the features of all three people watching Oliver and Laurel. Thea, seeing Walter and Moira were frozen with looks of consternation and mild concern on their expressions, asked the question they seemed afraid to ask. “What happened to Dad, Ollie? And why don’t you call him ‘Dad’ anymore?”  

Oliver looked at his sister and said, “If I tell you this, Speedy, I need you to promise me you’ll talk to Sara about it and not search out comfort in other ways. I’m only giving you the chance to hear this because you’re almost eighteen, almost a legal adult. If you were still that little girl who chased after me, I wouldn’t even give you the chance to hear it. So, promise me, Thea; promise you won’t try and deal with it yourself.” 

Thea raised her chin and said, “I promise, Ollie. What happened to him?”  

“Robert made it off the  _Gambit_  with Laurel and I, along with Dave Hackett,” Oliver said quietly, his gaze becoming unfocused as he spoke. Laurel placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Thea’s eyes widened and Walter and Moira looked stunned at the revelation. “We drifted for days. One morning, Robert went mad, saying something about how he was the only one that could fix it. He had a gun on him, and he killed Hackett before he turned the gun on Laurel and I.” Thea’s hand went up to her mouth in horror, while Moira closed her eyes and Walter had to hold her up. “We fought for the gun; in the end, my desire to live and to keep Laurel safe gave me the strength and cunning I needed.”  

Oliver’s eyes refocused as he gave his mother a firm glare. “ _I_  killed Robert Queen and I would do it again to save my fiancé.” Oliver handed the keys to the car to Laurel, who recognized the unspoken message that he was too angry to drive. She went to the driver’s side as Oliver met his mother’s horrified gaze, Walter’s shocked but understanding one, and finally his little sister’s own gaze, which had a mixture of two kinds of horror. Horror that Oliver admitted to killing Robert, and horror that he and Laurel had been put in that situation in the first place. Oliver turned his gaze back to his mother. “Now, I know I’m not exactly a PR expert, but I’m pretty sure that if it got out that I killed Robert, in self-defense or not, QC’s stock would plummet far more drastically. Am I wrong, Walter?”  

“No, Oliver, you are not,” Walter said quietly. “I can’t begin to fathom what you intend to accomplish here by telling us this, but I appreciate that you could have ruined the company and chose not to.”  

“I intend nothing but to ensure Mom knows I will never be Robert’s son and honor him ever again,” Oliver said quietly. “I don’t want the company ruined because there are things I can do with the wealth this family has access to, and I doubt you’ll want to stop me since it will help the  _family image_. Oh, yes,” he said at seeing Moira’s shocked gaze coming up to meet his, a sardonic smirk crossing his features. “I do intend to fix our currently-tainted image, Mom. The difference is I will do it through my own actions and deeds, and not pin the legacy of our family on a man who doesn’t deserve the honor. I knew that in order to build a strong foundation for our family legacy, I would need to destroy the weaker foundation. By ensuring we aren’t building on a foundation of deceit and treachery, I’ll be able to build our name back up without having to take those actions.”  

Oliver turned and walked around to the passenger side of the car before he turned back, as if struck by an epiphany. “Oh, and Raisa has been offered a position with Laurel and I, Mom, seeing as you deemed my choice to not honor Robert to be her influence, and no doubt Laurel’s. I’m not so weak-minded as you believe, but only time will show you that. I hope nothing untoward occurs while Raisa journeys from the mansion to mine and Laurel’s new apartment in town. I’d hate to have to destroy QC completely before I begin rebuilding our name.” The threat in his tone was clear, and for the first time since the castaways had been recovered, the Queen family realized with incredible clarity that the Oliver they had lost died long ago, and the person before them now was very different, and uncompromising in his position. “I hope one day you realize just how great a mistake you’ve made since Laurel and I came back.” Oliver turned his gaze to Thea, who was looking at him, her hazel eyes standing out against the shock-white face framed by her dark brown hair. “Thea, you are  _always_  welcome at mine and Laurel’s.” Oliver turned and got in the car, which pulled away, leaving a stunned family behind.  

As Laurel drove to their new building, Oliver’s mind drifted back to another time and another place.  

**_*DC*_ **

_Five Years Ago_

Oliver and Laurel were led through the camp, the mercenaries stationed in the camp eyeing them with surprise and suspicion. Oliver kept an arm around Laurel as she clung to him, his mind focused on both comforting her and coming up with what he was going to say to the mercenary commander. The leader of the unit they were following came to a stop outside of a large tent and turned to the two young castaways. “Wait here,” the man said firmly, and entered the tent. There was a tense minute as indistinct words could be heard inside the tent, and finally the man reappeared, opening the flap. He gestured to Oliver and Laurel. “Come in, but no sudden movements,” the unit commander told them. Oliver and Laurel shuffled inside and were guided to a pair of seats in front of a simple fold-up table that was serving as the desk for the man seated behind it.  

The man had a rumpled uniform as though he often slept in it, and his attitude and bearing seemed more that of a genial and affable uncle rather than the commander of a mercenary force. It was only his eyes, that did not hold the warmth of the smile he gave the two young castaways, that showed what kind of man he truly was. “Please, sit,” the man said as a pair of glasses were set in front of them, purified water being poured into the same. “You must have been through quite the ordeal already. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Edward Fyers. You’re rather fortunate my men found you when they did. There are a pair of men on this island who would not have been so kind.”  

“I’m Oliver Queen,” said the young billionaire after taking a sip of the water. Laurel had done the same, her eyes flitting about out of nerves. “This is my girlfriend, Laurel. We were on my father’s yacht when a storm hit us. We’ve spent the past few days adrift, until yesterday. We just started exploring the island, trying to find a better shelter than what we had, when we saw your men. My family’s rich, Mr. Fyers. I’m sure my mother would pay handsomely if we could use your radio, or a satellite phone if you have it.”  

“I would most certainly look forward to such a payment, Mr. Queen,” Fyers told him. “However, the operation my men are currently involved in is quite sensitive, and if you are returned, the press will no doubt dig into how you were rescued. My employer would be. . . displeased if the operation were to get out. That said, we can certainly make your stay with us comfortable, though I would have to restrict your access to certain areas of the camp. Do you understand me, Mr. Queen? Ms. Lance?”  

Oliver looked at Laurel, who nodded, and turned back to Fyers. “We understand,” Oliver told him quietly. “We just want to get home. We’ll do whatever you ask so we can do that.”  

Fyers nodded absently. “I’ll have my men set up a tent nearby. You’ll have food delivered as needed. For now, remain here. I must contact my employer and inform them of the situation.” At Oliver and Laurel’s assent to staying put, Fyers gave the two castaways a reassuring smile, which once again didn’t quite reach his eyes, before leaving the tent with one of his men to keep an eye on them. He was certain that they could use the castaways in some fashion to lure out Yao Fei or Slade Wilson, but he wanted to get the go ahead with his employer to do so. Queen and Lance were, after all, college kids of some sort, not particularly threatening.  

**_*DC*_ **

_Present Day_

Entering their apartment in downtown Starling, Oliver and Laurel were only briefly surprised at finding the Merlyns and Lances waiting for them, though in hindsight they shouldn’t have been surprised. Dinah had been given a key to deliver a few items last night in case they weren’t here when she came, and it didn’t surprise either of them that she would want to have a housewarming party of some kind for the two former castaways. There were several foldable chairs and tables that had been set up in the large downstairs space, and the two families rose to greet Oliver and Laurel.  

Malcolm came up to Oliver and held out a hand. Oliver took it and found himself surprised when Malcolm forewent the handshake and pulled him into a one-armed hug. “Thank you, Oliver,” the man told him, and Oliver was surprised at the depth of emotion in Malcolm’s voice. While he was akin to a favored uncle to Oliver and Thea, Malcolm was still a reserved man and didn’t often engage in such strong displays of emotion. But then, Oliver reflected, this was a rather unique occasion. “Thank you for honoring Rebecca this way. She would have been proud to have her name attached to such an endeavor.”  

“It was only right,” Oliver said quietly as he and Malcolm separated, only for Tommy to envelop Oliver in a hug of his own for honoring Tommy’s mother this way. “I know how much you try to do for the city because you want Rebecca to be proud of how you handled her death. I wanted to do something to honor her, too. Especially since she’s about the only person I knew who did these things for the sake of doing them, and not for any other reason.”  

“Thank you, Ollie,” Tommy said, his voice somewhat strangled as he tried to control his own emotions. Sara put an arm around her fiancé’s shoulders. “Though I can’t imagine how hard it must’ve been, to do what you did before honoring Mom.”  

“It was,” Oliver admitted, “but I had Laurel with me, and she kept me strong. A part of me almost didn’t go through with it, but I just had to remember yesterday evening to realize I needed to do it.”  

“What happened yesterday evening?” asked Quentin as the group took their seats, Oliver and Laurel claiming the loveseat, Malcolm the armchair, while the Lances and Tommy claimed the foldable lawn chairs.  

“I went to deliver the severance packages the steel workers should’ve received to them at their favorite bar in the Glades,” Oliver said quietly, Laurel smiling as she recalled the story Oliver had told her last night. “It wasn’t just the workers there, but their families, too. I had these little kids, wearing threadbare clothing and shoes falling apart, come up and thank me, some of them even  _hugged_ me for doing what my father should have done. When I remembered that, there was no way I could lie to the people today.”  

“I can’t imagine Moira took too kindly to it,” Dinah said softly, watching Oliver and Laurel. She had noticed they were a bit tense when they came in, though they hid it well.  

“No, she didn’t,” Oliver agreed. “When we went to the mansion to get our things, I found out that Mom just fired Raisa, no doubt because she thinks Raisa had too much influence on me.” Tommy’s eyes widened in shock; Raisa had been practically a fixture in the Queen household since he and Oliver were little boys; trying to imagine her not being there felt like reality was being torn. Sara was likewise shocked. “Seeing as neither Laurel or I can cook worth a damn, I offered Raisa a place here with us. She took the job.” Oliver’s lips thinned. “I made sure she knew that as long as I’m alive and I have money, she won’t want for a job.”  

“Good for you, Oliver,” Malcolm said. “I have to say, I am struggling to recognize Moira as the person I knew in my younger years as of late. Was that all that happened? Should we expect Moira to come here seeking to confront you over the press conference earlier?”  

“No,” Oliver said. “We had it out at the house. Aside from Thea, I don’t expect to have much contact with my family, and I have enough funds that I can continue the work I want to do without much worries of Mom trying to cut me off.” Oliver looked around at them and was surprised to note the resigned expressions on everyone’s faces. “I see you expected this,” he said quietly.  

“We’ve all noticed how you and Laurel have been chafing since coming back, Oliver,” Dinah said softly. “I admit, I was guilty of the same as Moira, trying to act as though you hadn’t changed. It was Quentin who convinced me that I needed to try and learn who you are now, rather than treat you as you were. Moira, it appears, is intent on acting as if nothing has changed and placing blame for it on anyone else.”  

Oliver nodded. “Well, seeing as Thea will need to talk to Sara about this anyways, and you’ll find out the truth from there, I think you need to know what I told Mom, Walter, and Thea,” he said. “I had to tell Mom I could have destroyed Queen Consolidated by telling the truth about what happened to Robert five years ago, and why I don’t call him ‘Dad’ anymore.” Unconsciously, those gathered around them leaned forward. “After the  _Gambit_  went down, Robert made it to the life raft with Dave Hackett, and they helped Laurel and I onto the raft once we broke through to the surface,” Oliver said. “We drifted for days. One morning, Robert went mad, talking about how only he ‘could fix everything’ and then he pulled out a gun.” Sara and Dinah gasped at that while Tommy and Quentin’s eyes bulged. Malcolm’s expression was shocked as well, having never conceived Robert would do anything so rash. “He killed Hackett, and then he turned the gun on Laurel and me. I leaped forward, and we wrestled for the gun. In the end, my desire to live and to keep Laurel safe gave me what I needed. I turned the gun on him and pulled the trigger.” Oliver, whose gaze had been focused on the ground, lifted to examine the faces of the Merlyns and Lances.  

Malcolm’s expression had morphed into one of grief, while Tommy was staring at Oliver, shocked and horrified at what he had just heard. Sara was clinging tightly to his hand, her blue eyes wide as she shifted her gaze between Laurel and Oliver rapidly, as if wondering if they would suddenly vanish because they hadn’t made it home. Dinah had her hand to her mouth, her shocked gaze meeting her daughter’s, while Quentin met Oliver’s gaze and gave him a sharp nod. “Thank you for keeping her safe,” Quentin rasped out. “I just wish you didn’t have to do that.”  

“No one should have to defend themselves against their own parent,” Malcolm said softly, giving Oliver a look of deep regret. “I’m sorry that you had to go through that, Oliver. I can’t imagine what Robert was talking about, unless it was the steel workers. He was going to China during that trip, after all, to check on the steel operation there. It wouldn’t be surprising if what he had done was on his mind.”  

“I wonder if that was the case myself,” Oliver murmured. “It’s one reason I was glad I was able to make that right. Maybe his spirit will rest a little easier, now.”  

Malcolm nodded before saying, “Well, this has certainly gotten dour rather quickly. Oliver, why don’t you walk me through the building, explain your plans for it in more detail? We can also discuss the name for the building.” Tommy asked to come along, and the three men left the room.  

As the door closed behind Oliver and the Merlyns, Sara shook her head, giving Laurel a look. “Wow, Laurel. I knew he loved you, but what he did… It’s hard to imagine anyone having to do that.”  

“He’s saved me more than once over the years, just as I’ve saved him,” Laurel said softly, a smile twitching up at her sister’s disbelieving stare. “Oh, I haven’t quite wrestled someone for a gun, but there are other ways of saving someone, Sara. Reminding them they’re human, for example, that they have the right to feel anger or despair, hope or love; that can save a person just as easily as killing someone threatening them can.”  

Quentin glanced at the door. “I’m glad we got a minute alone,” he said. “There’s something we gotta talk about, Laurel. It’s about Moira. You can tell Oliver later,” he added, seeing Laurel about to object, no doubt about Oliver not being here, “but this is more important for you.”  

“Alright,” Laurel said slowly. She noticed her mother and Sara were just as grim-looking as her father. “What is it about Moira you need to talk to me about?”  

“I’m sure you remember how Moira was before the  _Gambit_ ,” Dinah started. “While she could be cold at times, there was no doubt she loved Oliver and Thea.” At Laurel’s nod, Dinah sighed and said, “After the  _Gambit_  sank, Moira vanished from society for nearly two years, leaving business up to Walter Steele and ignoring even Thea, who latched onto Sara as a role model, someone to look up to the way a young girl should look up to their mother in some way. When Moira finally started coming out into society again, she was. . .  _different_.  

“She smiled, but it was always the polite, courteous smile given to the public, never the warm smile of a doting mother. But at this point, Thea took anything she could get. Moira also became much more focused on projecting the image of the perfect family, and Walter was only too happy to enter a relationship with Moira. As I understand it, he’d admired her from afar, but never made a move seeing as Robert was alive and well. The fact that marrying her legitimized his position as C.E.O. of Queen Consolidated in a new way didn’t hurt, either,” Dinah couldn’t help but add.  

“There have been a few who tried to point out Robert wasn’t the best of C.E.O.’s or the best of people over the years,” Quentin picked up. “Sara knew one, a young IT expert from QC, Felicity Smoak. She tried to bring attention to the steel workers’ funds being funneled away, even wrote a report on it and delivered it to Moira’s desk when Moira had a position, briefly, at the company after her return from solitude.” Quentin sighed. “Poor kid got charged with corporate espionage because she was working so late and no one would vouch for the fact that she was doing the jobs she was assigned. She’s serving a five-year sentence for corporate espionage, and when she gets out, she’ll be lucky to get a job at a Tech Village.”

“Why did you all act stunned the other night when Oliver brought the steel workers’ plight up, then?” Laurel asked, feeling a bit angry at the deception, even if she knew she had no room to talk, what with she got up to at night.  

“We were surprised that someone confronted her about it,” Dinah admitted. “That it was Oliver made it even more shocking. You have to admit, Laurel, that he wasn’t all that concerned about the people of Starling when you left on the  _Gambit_.” Laurel sighed and nodded in agreement. “In truth, we’ve also buried our own opinions about what she’s been doing out of fear. Moira is simply not the woman we knew five years ago. She’s colder and your father suspects that there have been more like Ms. Smoak who discovered the truth, only those ones simply vanished.”  

Laurel felt a chill even as Sara caught her eye. “What we’re trying to say, Laurel,” Sara said once she was certain she had Laurel’s attention, “is that Moira is very focused on ensuring a legacy of what she’s already established, and you supporting Oliver in his current endeavors will put you in her crosshairs. Don’t underestimate her.”  

“I won’t,” Laurel promised. She looked around and smiled at her family. “Now, can we turn the conversation to a more important topic: like how best to furnish this place?” Quentin let out a half-hearted moan as Dinah and Sara lit up, but Laurel saw her father’s look of approval as Sara and Dinah launched into a discussion about what the coverings for the couches and chairs should be, what color the coverings should be dyed, and other such things. He could appreciate her desire to not focus on what Moira Queen  _might_  do and wanting to have more than just bad things to talk about with her family.  

**_*DC*_ **

_Five Years Ago_

While they had eaten the beans and canned meat that had been brought to them while they waited for Fyers to return, Oliver and Laurel had both noted that more men had joined the man that had been set to watch them, and Laurel was beginning to feel a bit nervous from the way some of the men didn’t hide their eying her up and down. Oliver had noted as well and was tensing for a confrontation. After what seemed to be a long, tense hour but was truly only ten minutes, one of the men moved over to them. He placed a hand on Laurel’s shoulder, and she tensed.  

“It’s okay,” the man said in what he likely believed to be a soothing tone. “I’m Chad. What’s your name?” Laurel kept silent, and the man sighed. “Look, your names will be around the camp in no time. What’s the harm in telling me your name now?”  

“You can wait to find out our names,” Oliver said roughly.  

“Now, you might want to tone down the aggression there,” the soldier, Chad, told him. “We might be neighbors for a while, and you don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, now do you?”  

Laurel set a hand on Oliver’s knee as he moved to answer back, and her eyes flashed a warning to not push it with these men. Oliver, grudgingly, didn’t say anything further. Instead, in a tired but firm voice, his girlfriend said, “I’m Laurel. This is Oliver.”  

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Chad said graciously. “May I say, Miss Laurel, that you are quite pleasing to the eye. Have you and Oliver been together long?”  

“Two years,” Laurel said quietly. “We’ve known each other even longer. Most of our lives, in fact.”  

“Hmm, but only been together two years? Doesn’t sound like you thought him much of a prize until then,” Chad said. “What changed?”  

Laurel eyed the man with a growing distaste. She had had this conversation more than once. Oliver wasn’t exactly known for his athleticism, despite both being in decent shape. As a result, some of the more athletically-inclined men at her university had tried to convince her they were the right catch, only to prove themselves far more odious than Oliver had been, even at the height of his partying. “Sorry, but I don’t pick my partners based on the size of their muscles or penis,” she told the man. “I pick them on the size of their heart, and I’ll take my party-boy boyfriend over a heartless mercenary whose only care is for his paycheck.”  

Oliver groaned softly as the air seemed to thicken with tension, and then he was sent ass over tea kettle as Chad backhanded him, sending his chair toppling backwards, and two of his buddies seized Laurel by her arms, dragging her out of her seat. As Oliver scrambled to his feet, he noticed their guard had left the tent, and now it was just Chad and his two buddies. As Chad began undoing his belt over Laurel’s cries for him to stop, Oliver once more felt the adrenalin rush through his system that he had felt when he fought with his father. Lurching forward, Oliver collided with Chad and tried to put him in a sleeper hold, though he’d only seen it done in movies. The mercenary grabbed his arm and threw him over his shoulder, and Oliver landed on the ground beside Laurel. 

Oliver lashed out at the man holding down Laurel’s right arm, catching him in his face. As Laurel’s hand was freed, she reared to her left, delivering a right cross to the remaining soldier, and Oliver rolled out of the way as Chad tried to stomp down on him. Rolling to his feet, Oliver leaped forward, trying to tackle Chad and pull him further from Laurel. Chad lashed out with a kick, catching Oliver in the chest before he even made it to the man, and Oliver toppled to the ground, wheezing.  

Before anything more could happen between the castaways and the three soldiers, Fyers returned with their initial guard and a masked man whose mask was a very light yellow and solid black, split evenly down the middle. He wore a pair of swords strapped to his back, and a bandolier around his chest held grenades. “What is going on here?” Fyers said frostily. “The guard I placed on Mr. Queen and Ms. Lance informed me that you three entered and tried to bribe him with rations to leave you to ‘have some fun’ with Ms. Lance. Luckily, he has more loyalty to me than rations can buy, which is more than can be said for you. Mr. Wintergreen, if you would?”  

The man with the swords, presumably Mr. Wintergreen, unsheathed his wicked-looking blades. Even as Chad and his compatriots cowered and attempted to plead for their lives, Wintergreen stalked forward, skewering Chad with one blade while removing his head with another. Blood spurted from the cut arteries as the body fell, and Oliver and Laurel were hit even as they scurried away, low to the ground in case Wintergreen accidentally registered them as targets.  

Quick flicks of his blades at the two kneeling soldiers opened their throats and they pitched forward, bodies shuddering as blood pooled around their bodies, spreading across the plastic bottom of the tent. “Thank you, as always, for an efficient job, Mr. Wintergreen,” Fyers said calmly as the man sheathed his blades and Oliver exchanged alarmed looks with a frightened Laurel, who was shaking from the near-miss at being raped she had just experienced. She had known women who were raped at frat parties, one of the reasons she had kept herself from drinking too much at those parties to begin with, but while she had done her best to comfort them, she hadn’t truly  _known_  what it was like to experience the fear that rushed through her body at the thought of being attacked like that.  

“A pleasure, Mr. Fyers,” Wintergreen said coolly, his first words since coming into the tent. His accent placed him as coming from Australia, while Fyers was more British in accent, and Chad had had an American one, mid-Western perhaps. What kind of mercenary company was this? Wintergreen departed the tent as several more soldiers entered and began pulling the bodies out of the tent. Only two remained afterward: the initial guard and one other.  

Fyers eyed the two young castaways with a bit more curiosity now. “While I’m glad they were unable to harm you, I am curious at the fact you managed to keep them busy,” Fyers told them. “Ms. Lance, these gentlemen will escort you to where another female guest of ours is currently living,” he gestured to the men beside him. “Mr. Queen and I will rejoin you shortly. I promise no harm shall befall you, as I’ve made certain people know that you, like our other female guest, are under the protection of Mr. Wintergreen. The rest of my men avoid angering Mr. Wintergreen, for good reason.”  

Laurel shot a frightened look at Oliver, who looked between the two guards and Fyers. On the one hand, he wasn’t sure he trusted Fyers’ men to not try something with Laurel; but on the other hand, Fyers had ordered three of his men executed for attempting to rape Laurel in the first place, and the man that carried it out did seem to hold the fear of the men. Oliver gave Laurel a comforting grin and said, “Don’t worry, Laurel. I think Mr. Fyers is being honest. If not,” Oliver’s voice grew cold, “well, I don’t think I’ll have much trouble pulling the trigger with these men. Not after killing my father to keep you safe.”  

Fyers’ expression briefly took on a look of approval before going back to the genial look he had. Laurel went with the men, shooting nervous looks back at Oliver, and Oliver turned to face the mercenary commander, adopting a neutral expression he had seen his mother utilize dozens of times. “What is it you want, Mr. Fyers?” Oliver asked, his tone flat and emotionless.  

**_*DC*_ **

_Present Day_

If someone had told the driver of Metropolis City Cab 1141 that the woman in the back of his cab, due to be taken to an address in the ‘upper crust’ section of Suicide Slums (if there was such a place), was Moira Queen, the infamous matriarch of Starling City’s unofficial royal family, he would have told them they were high. Moira Queen was often emblazoned on magazines, both tabloids and officious magazines such as  _Us Weekly_  and  _People_  Magazine, and as result the fact she rarely wore anything  _but_  designer clothing and had perfectly coifed hair always was well-known. 

The woman seated in the back of the cab could pass for Moira Queen if she dolled up, the cab driver would have told anyone stupid enough to think Moira Queen would take a cab, but she was clearly a resident of Suicide Slums, no doubt having had business downtown briefly. She wore a hoodie, her hair falling about her head in a haphazard fashion as if it hadn’t been brushed for some time, and the jeans she wore were off a second-hand shelf, as were the tennis shoes she wore. Finally, she wore no make-up whatsoever. No, the woman in the back of the cab was in no way, shape, or form the matriarch of Starling’s unofficial royal family.  

Which, of course, was precisely what Moira Dearden (the true Moira, not the persona of Moira Dearden Queen she wore to fool the masses, and even herself at times) wanted people to think. It would simply not do for people to connect the matriarch of the Queen family to the notorious crime boss of Metropolis, Morgan Edge. If they made that connection, they would eventually make the connection to Moira’s true name and her connection to the ruthless CEO of LuthorCorp, Lionel Luthor. That simply could not happen, as events were finally in motion to bring about Malcolm’s vision for what Starling could be, as opposed to what it was.  

Moira remembered when Malcolm had first come to her, all those years ago after the  _Gambit_ sank. He had expressed deep regret for Oliver and Laurel’s loss along with Robert’s, telling her that Robert had been a part of his plan to make the city a better place and gotten cold feet. He told her about how he had asked Frank Chen to talk with Robert, and how Frank had taken it a step further and had his Triad contacts place a bomb on the  _Queen’s Gambit_. Moira had been angry at Malcolm for not speaking to Robert himself, but in the end she had recognized that Robert, coward that he was, was unlikely to have been swayed by Malcolm, no matter how truthful or passionate Malcolm’s argument was. Moira had asked Malcolm for one thing in return for her playing a role in the Undertaking: Frank Chen’s death, as payment for her son’s death and that of Laurel, who despite her idealism appeared to be the only person who seemed capable of taming the wild side of her son.  

Malcolm had agreed with her request and his current enforcer, known simply as the Swordsman, had carried out the hit. For two years after the sinking, the two had conceived the Undertaking’s final steps between them and grown close as a result. With the need to have the Markov Device developed under a company other than Merlyn Global, which had already bought up properties in the Glades, they had come to realization that they would need a patsy to take the fall should the device be discovered in the aftermath. Enter Moira’s relationship with Walter, who had always been attracted to her but never made a move while Robert was alive. Walter, ever-so-proper and very British, would find himself facing troubles if the device was discovered and Moira, shocked and horrified by the realization one of her husband’s only allies at Queen Consolidated had conceived such a massacre and likely killed Robert himself, would join forces with Malcolm in seeking to change the city for the better.  

They were months away, now, but things were beginning to unravel. These new vigilantes, the Black Canary and the Green Arrow, had appeared and were taking down criminals all around the city, but particularly in the Glades, and as a result there was talk of more programs to reach out to the people there. Even Walter was talking of such programs when she had departed for Metropolis this afternoon, saying she needed some time to herself to try and wrap her head around what Oliver had informed them of.  

That, of course, was the other part of the problem, and the reason she had returned to Suicide Slums to seek out Morgan Edge. Oliver had always been soft-hearted, unwilling to realize that he needed to wall himself off from the impact their actions had on others. Were they meant to always live a Spartan lifestyle because they could easily help the poor in other ways with the money spent on making sure they had a decent, comfortable life? Oliver’s soft heart and tendency to root for the underdog had grated on both Moira and Robert, but it had been a phase, they were certain. But now, five years after the  _Gambit_  sank to the depths, Oliver might well be colder in his actions, but his actions spoke to his heart still being far too soft. Laurel Lance constantly supporting his actions, which was ruining every effort Moira was making to put the company in a good position once the Undertaking took place, was a primary cause, she was certain, as was Raisa’s influence on Oliver as he grew up. But rather than recognize what was happening, Oliver clung tightly to both Laurel and Raisa.  

Moira could do little about the Russian woman aside from firing her, and Oliver had seen fit to take her in. If anything happened to Raisa now, Oliver would immediately suspect Moira’s hand in it, so the only move Moira had to play was to teach Laurel a lesson and remind her that she was  _not_  the family matriarch yet. She didn’t want Laurel dead, of course; if she did, she would simply hire the Huntsman, whom she knew was remaining in Starling due to an apparent feud with the Black Canary. No, she wanted Laurel frightened of continuing to support Oliver, and the best kinds of men for that sort of job were in the service of Morgan Edge (and by virtue of their continuing, under the table partnership, her brother). Of course, there was also the fact that Morgan was the only option, since the Starling-based mercenaries were, for the most part, under Malcolm’s control and he wouldn’t be inclined to render aid in this instance. Those not under Malcolm’s control were inefficient, sloppy, and would be easily traced back to her.  

She had heard from Malcolm not long before her decision to come to Metropolis. Unsurprisingly, he was apologetic that her plans for the Applied Sciences building to be a monument to Robert had been cut off at the knees, but he was very pleased with Oliver and Laurel’s other action, the downtown building full of apartments that would be offered at half-price to those from the Glades who wanted to work downtown but couldn’t make it there due to the lack of the subway. As Malcolm had told her, this would ensure  _all_ the non-criminal elements of the Glades would be moved out. So, asking for access to the Swordsman or any of Malcolm’s other hired hands to scare Laurel into submission would have been a waste of time.  

“Ma’am, we’re here,” the cab driver said, pulling Moira out of her thoughts. She looked up and noted that they had, indeed, reached the club Morgan Edge ran as a legitimate front for his illegal businesses. Moira had to resist the urge to sniff in disgust, seeing as Morgan’s nightclubs did indeed bring in a lot of money, to the point that few could take note of what money was laundered and what was truly earned at the clubs. This club was Morgan’s primary location, and Moira knew the man liked to conduct business in these places. It was, she admitted, a wonderfully loud location that would cover any screams with its loud music and cheering crowds.  

Paying the man with cash, Moira exited the cab and made her way into the club, which had a crowd of all ages (though most of them were closer to her children’s age groups than her own) and headed for the bar, where she was met with a gray-haired bartender that she recognized as being one Morgan’s men, having come into contact with him when he was younger. She leaned on the counter, almost slouching, her hands folded over one another as she met the man’s gaze. “Well, if it isn’t little Eddie Baxter,” she said, her voice dripping with a tone that reminded the man opposite her of poisoned honey. “I must say, the years have not been kind to you. Where did all that gray come from? Stressing over whether Morgan would decide to knife you for missing a shipment or something of that nature?”  

“M-Moira?” the man opposite her squeaked. She gave him a vicious little smile that had once earned her the nickname “Malicious Moira”, though once Lionel had heard of the nickname, he had had the originator of it eviscerated for disparaging his little sister (no matter how true the moniker might have been). “I-I heard you didn’t come around Metropolis no more,” the man continued. “W-what brings you back around?”  

“Oh, just a little bit of business, Eddie, and I would prefer to get it out of the way before my dear, ever-so-protective brother finds out I’m in town, as he’ll want to try and have a little reunion, I’m sure,” she told him. “Now, why don’t you scurry along like a good little rodent and tell Morgan I’m here to see him, and that he’d best not keep me waiting. If he does, I may be so inclined as to remove what remains of his testicles, shriveled with age though they might be.” Moira finished this threat with a smirk that was half out of keeping in character, and half because she was picturing her children’s reaction to her utilizing such base language. No doubt they would keel over from shock at the very idea.  

Eddie did precisely what she asked after giving her a bottle of beer, which she kicked back with expert efficiency. After all, Moira Dearden quite enjoyed the taste of the beer served in Morgan’s nightclubs. Moira Queen, on the other hand, would’ve turned up her nose at such an offering and insisted on, at the very least, a fine Cognac. After a few minutes, during which Moira noted a few people about the dance floor who honestly didn’t seem to be there for the purpose of partying (a bald young man accompanied by a black-haired youth a few years his junior, and a pair of girls, one your typical blonde in trendy clothing and the other with a hint of an Asian appearance), Moira was approached by a pair of men. “Mr. Edge will see you now,” Meat Slab #1, as she designated the one on her right, said. She finished the beer, tossed it behind the bar (barely missing the returning Eddie, as she intended), and followed the two bruisers, unaware she was being eyed by the three youths and the bald man in their company.  

In the sound-proofed room, only the vibrations of the music got through, giving the surfaces of the room a throbbing sort of nature. The Meat Slabs that had escorted Moira to the room took up a position by the door, while the man Moira had come to see rose from where he had been seated, smiling at the sight of her. “Well, when Eddie told me who was here to see me, I scarcely believed it,” Morgan Edge said as he took in the appearance of his old friend’s little sister, whose charm was only matched by her sadistic humor. “Of course, the threat to remove my testicles all but proved it was you; not many people, even women, make that kind of threat. But I gotta wonder what brings little Moira Dearden back to her old stomping grounds. Troubles in the paradise you built for yourself in Starling, your majesty?”  

“A bit of trouble, yes, Morgan,” Moira replied, taking the seat he gestured to. A rather delicious bottle of red wine from the 1800s was poured by one of the guards into a pair of glasses and brought over to the two of them. Moira sipped the wine, smiling a bit. “I see you remembered my favorite vintage.”  

“Well, I still hope to one day woo you over to my side of the line, Moira,” Morgan told her. “But for now, I will settle for your business. What is it I can help you with, and why didn’t you simply approach your brother? You know how devoted he is to mend the breach between you.”  

“Yes, his devotion that increased when I married Robert Queen and became involved in the same circles as Rebecca and Malcolm Merlyn,” Moira sniffed. “I don’t need him continually trying to find a way past the shield I put up between my past life and my new one, Morgan. I only came here because I cannot utilize any of the usual mercenaries I would use. The man they are under the control of is currently enamored with the person I wish to use them against. Merely to scare the person, you must understand,” she added, giving Morgan a scathing look. “If I wanted them dead, I would simply hire the Huntsman, as he is currently in Starling and hiding out.”  

“Yes, I had heard the notorious killer had taken up residence in Starling,” Morgan murmured. “Lionel was thinking of making the trip there himself, as he wants the Huntsman for our own stable of mercenaries. Rumor has it the Huntsman desires to add the Black Canary to his roster of victims. Any truth to that?”  

“They appear to know one another, as she attempted to stop his hit on a young attorney from C.N.R.I., an attempt that failed,” Moira replied coolly. “While the vigilante problem is a bother, it is one my  _associate_  is handling.”  

“So, what is it you need my man to do?” Morgan asked.  

“My son’s fiancé, Laurel Lance, is encouraging his current bout of insanity,” Moira stated. “Everything I had in place to keep my family’s company, my children’s future, secure for the foreseeable future, ruined because my son has come home with a fancy belief that honesty is the best policy, a belief that Laurel keeps alive. She has always pointed him in these directions, but before she never had the amount of impact we’re seeing now. Their five years away has kept him from realizing that things are the way they are for a reason, and that we wouldn’t be half as well off if we didn’t occasionally cut corners.”  

“Ah, so you wish for my man to  _curb_  Ms. Lance’s idealism, ensure that she doesn’t keep encouraging your son’s actions?” Morgan said. “Well, I might be able to do that. I’ve got a man who’s looking to make a name for himself in this business, and he’ll take just about any job right now. But I’d like something in return, Moira.”  

“Which is?” Moira asked, though she suspected she knew very well what he had planned.  

“You know I’ve always been attracted to you, and I’m sure you’ve occasionally felt the attraction to me as well,” Morgan said. “One night is all I ask, Moira. After all, nothing leaves these four walls if I don’t want it to, so you wouldn’t even have to worry about Lionel hearing about it. I know how possessive he can be. Besides, it’s not as if we’re likely to produce children as a result,” he added with a smirk.  

Moira appeared to ponder the offer for a moment, then she leaned forward, one hand reaching forward and running along the left side of his chest before gripping his tie and jerking it forward as she stood, moving towards the fireplace. “Perhaps the time has come after all,” Moira mused as she led Morgan to the fireplace, pulling him down as she knelt there as well. “But let me be clear, Morgan: I am no meek, submissive hooker. I do not submit; I dominate.”  

“Well, this is certainly a new side of you, Moira,” Morgan said, following her lead as she pushed him onto his back, his legs stretching out behind her as she straddled him. She ran her hands up and down his chest, making him further enticed by the thought of what was to come.  

Sadly, for Morgan’s two guards and his libido, she was merely using this as a cover to coax the throwing knives she had stowed up her sleeves into position so she could bring them into her palms. A moment later she had palmed the knives and sat erect, throwing them forward at the Meat Slabs. Taught by Malcolm how to use the knives proficiently, her blades found their mark in the Meat Slabs’ throats. The men choked on their own blood, reactively pulling the blade from their throats and hastening their own demise. As Morgan reacted beneath her, Moira pinned his head to the ground with her right hand around his neck and his right arm to the ground with her left leg.  

“Ah, ah,” she said softly. “The best part is yet to come, Mr. Edge.” She leaned over and reached to the side, retrieving the poker that had been stuck in there for use in questioning. “Now, Morgan,” she said as she handled the cool end of the poker, watching as his eyes widened in terror. “You seem to have forgotten who I am. I am not some strumpet who will purchase your services with sex, nor am I someone you can cajole into doing as you desire. I am Moira Dearden Luthor, sister to your dear business partner, Lionel. Now, what would he do to you if he found out you had attempted to coerce me into sleeping with you in exchange for the use of one of your agents? Why, I do believe he mentioned something about piranhas the last time. I wonder if his imagination has come up with more interesting options since then.”  

“M-Moira,” Morgan rasped out, but stopped as she applied pressure to his windpipe.  

“Do shush, now, I’m still speaking,” Moira told him. “Now, I could let Lionel know what you tried to do, but I do need that hitman and it’d be such a mess trying to explain to them all that you are no longer the big boss of Metropolis, wouldn’t it?” Morgan nodded quickly. “Well, I propose the following compromise,” she told him. “I will make sure you never make the mistake of trying this again, and you will ensure the man you speak of is on a helicopter to Starling before sunrise. If not, well, I may have to revisit that whole ‘not telling Lionel’ bit. Sound good?” Morgan made a sort of squelching noise. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, and twisted her left foot slightly, which caused Morgan’s hand to spasm and open. She jabbed the poker right into the center of his palm, and he let out a moan-like scream. As the sound and smell of sizzling flesh filled the air, Moira pulled the poker back out of it, and looked at the end, which was in the shape of an M. “Well, you likely use this to mark people, so they don’t forget who they work for, Morgan Edge. Let the burn scar on your hand remind you that crossing Moira Dearden comes with a steep penalty. After all, I know how often you use that hand to pleasure yourself.”  

Moira stood, allowing Morgan to roll away, whimpering as he held his hand close to his chest, blowing on it as if to cool the burning sensation. A cold sweat formed on his skin. “I’ll get Drakon to Starling before morning, I promise,” he said hoarsely between breaths.  

“Good,” Moira said, pointing the poker at him as though it were a royal scepter. “And remember, Morgan, I am not someone who submits to another. I am either an equal, or I dominate.” With that, Moira flung the poker to the side and left the room and a moaning Morgan Edge, who called Eddie to him to go get some medical aid and to contact Constantin Drakon. 

In the hidden room that Morgan usually used to observe his visitors before making a grand entrance, two young people barely into their university years had watched the ongoing horror show. The dark-haired, Cerulean-eyed young man who, in the private thoughts of many girls at the Kansas high school he had recently graduated from, had the looks of a Greek god from Olympus, was gaping at the scene before him, a bit green about the gills to be honest, while the young woman beside him, who he and his friends had come to the club looking for before she was caught snooping too far into Morgan Edge’s business, swallowed the bile in the back of her throat.  

“Well, Smallville,” Lois Lane said to Clark Kent, fighting back her own revolting stomach, “I think I just found the article that’s gonna win me that spot in the Journalism class next semester at Met U.” Clark shot her a look that told her he questioned the relative nature of her sanity at even thinking of using this as an article. “Journalists have to make this kind of move all the time, even if it means death threats,” Lois told him with a shrug. “If I don’t have the guts to write this up and put it in a paper, then why the hell should I bother going into journalism?”  

“I don’t know, Lois,” Clark said, shaking his head. “I’m not sure printing an article, without corresponding sources, that Moira Queen came to Metropolis and tortured the city’s crime boss into giving her a hitman is gonna fly. Especially if you add in the whole, ‘oh, and she’s the unknown sister of Lionel Luthor, Metropolis’ most ruthless businessman’ bit.”  

“Details,” Lois said loftily, waving her hand as if it wasn’t a concern. “Besides, I  _have_  a witness. You.” Clark balked at that, and the two spent their remaining time getting out of the club undetected silently arguing back and forth about how Clark was  _not_  going to be her witness, but, oh yes, he  _was_  because he owed her for that one time with the choppers. The argument continued until they reached the dorms, where they found Lois’ cousin, Chloe, and Clark’s ex-girlfriend, Lana, waiting for them with arms folded across their chests and stern looks. At that point, the two immediately laid the blame at the other’s feet.  

Meanwhile, upon her departure from the club, Moira had found herself accosted (so to speak) by yet another Meat Slab-slash-bodyguard-slash-driver, who said in a gravelly voice that he no doubt practiced in front of a mirror, “Mr. Luthor has sent a car for you.”  

“I don’t suppose you would be willing to drive me to the airport instead?” Moira asked, though she didn’t really put any heart into it. She knew her brother well, and he would take the opportunity to speak to her since she was here in Metropolis. At the driver shaking his head, Moira sighed and nodded. “Very well.” She got into the town car the driver directed her to and found a finely-pressed business suit, slate gray, and some beauty products waiting in the car. A note was attached:  _I’m sure you do not wish to see me in your current attire, little sister. Please accept these as a gift from your brother – L.L._  

“As charming as always,” Moira muttered dryly, but got to work returning to form. As a result, when the driver opened the door in the underground parking structure to let her out, it wasn’t Moira Dearden but Moira Queen (or at least the appearance of Moira Queen) who stepped out. “Stay put,” she told the man. “I doubt this will take very long.” She entered the waiting elevator and pressed the button for the executive floor. 

**_*DC*_ **

As she waited for Oliver to arrive for their nightly patrol (Laurel had had a lesson with Ted Grant, the grizzled boxer that Sara had introduced her to and whom Oliver had informed her was the man who helped them the night the Huntsman had incapacitated her), Laurel eyed the Lair. It had changed a bit since the initial set-up. They had traded in the computers for some state-of-the-art tech, courtesy of A.R.G.U.S., as they were expecting to accept Naomi Singh’s company in the coming weeks. She had gotten a message to them informing that she was intending to come to Starling and take up permanent residence, having settled the issues that had driven her off the grid in the first place. A pair of glass cases held their uniforms, which was what held Laurel’s attention for. Initially, when they first conceived their outfits while under the supervision of ARGUS’ tactical suppliers, they had planned for simple outfits, much like what Laurel had worn during her first outing as the Black Canary. From there, it had exploded.  

Oliver’s tactical armor, a collection of inter-connected plates with chainmail-like fabric allowing for maneuverability, shared the shade of green that Shado’s hood (the only part of the original design to survive contact with A.R.G.U.S. planners) had. Leather bracers to go on his forearms held flechettes. Combined with the state-of-the-art bow he gripped in his hands and his arrows, hand-crafted and sharpened so they could cut through flesh and basic Kevlar (as opposed to the ‘second skin’ type armor enemies of ARGUS wore) and were likewise tinted green as an homage to his training, he was well-prepared and well-armed. 

Laurel’s tactical armor, which she had upgraded to after the debacle with the Huntsman that led to Joanna’s death, was closer to the armor she wore when she last tackled with the bastard. The armor was colored black, naturally, but made use of A.R.G.U.S.’ tendency towards innovation: interconnected plates, a mixture of Kevlar and titanium alloy, covered the more vulnerable parts of her body, and formed bracers for her forearms while a metallic mesh fiber, not unlike chainmail, allowed for ease of movement when fighting with her extendable nightsticks. Much like Oliver’s armor, a domino mask finished the outfit off.  

Laurel was pulled from her musings as Oliver arrived. He smiled at her, and she returned the smile, though it was strained. “What is it?” he asked. “You’ve been quiet ever since I got back with Malcolm and Tommy this morning and they left with your family.”  

Laurel sighed and in a soft voice, as though hoping it would lessen the blow she was about to deliver, told Oliver about her family’s information about his mother’s actions over the past three years since she had come out of her self-imposed exile. By the time she was finished, Oliver was looking grim. “I’ll go see Ms. Smoak at Iron Heights tomorrow,” he told her. “In the meantime, we have work to do tonight. You gonna patrol the Glades again?” At Laurel’s nod, he said, “Be careful. The Huntsman is still out there.”  

“I know,” she told him. “Who are you going after?”  

“A.R.G.U.S. intel picked up chatter that Warren Patel is planning on taking out the competition in the Unidac Industries bid later this week,” Oliver said. “I’m going to visit Mr. Patel and convince him that hiring a mercenary in the current climate is  _unwise_.”  

“Have fun terrorizing Mr. Patel,” Laurel told him as she moved to the case containing her armor.  

**_*DC*_ **

As the Black Canary prowled across the rooftops of the Glades, ears cocked for the sounds of crime, especially crime involving women, she heard a soft scuff behind her as someone’s shoe scuffed a loose roof tile. She turned and found herself faced with a charging Triad agent, his gun coming up to bear on her. A quick burst from her Canary Cry sent him flying back, his gun clattering to the rooftop and his hands going to his ears as he pressed down on them, trying to get rid of the pain by applying pressure. As the pain faded, he found Black Canary nearly on top of him. “Do you have nothing better to do than try and find my partner and I?” she asked in Mandarin.  

“Chen Na Wei seeks your capture,” the Triad agent spat back. “She does not care how many must die to do so.”  

“And what does Zhishan think of this?” Black Canary asked softly, in reference to the head of the Starling branch of the Triad.  

“You paint us as weakened,” the Triad agent spat. “We must deal with you in order to show we remain strong.”  

“Or the Bratva and Bertinelli will scent blood in the water,” Black Canary finished. “Well, take a little message back to Zhishan and Chen Na Wei, little pup. Tell them that we won’t stop until all organized crime has been rid from this city. Bratva, Bertinelli, Triad, anyone who takes the place of one that falls will be meet the same fate. Take that message back to your masters. We will not back down.” She stepped back, and the Triad agent rose, eyes clouded over in anger and fear. After a moment of clear indecision, he turned and fled.  

The sound of a loud, mocking clap drew Black Canary’s attention from the fleeing Triad agent to the other end of the roof from where she stood. Standing there, in a new, leathery coat, stood the Huntsman. “Ah, I see you’ve brought back your original look, my little songbird,” the Huntsman said, smiling at her as she approached him, nightsticks extended. “I must say, I miss the other one. The leather hugged you rather tightly, let me know what I had to work with once I finally take you to my little workshop.” The Huntsman peered off in the direction the Triad agent had fled. “You know, I heard a rumor that Chen Na Wei wishes to peel the skin off your musculature as payment for the insult of your continued existence. But have no worries, my dear Canary. If any blade touches your skin, it will be mine.”  

“Sorry, Huntsman,” Black Canary said, twirling her nightsticks. “No blade is touching my skin. Not yours, not Chen Na Wei’s, no one’s.”  

“We shall see. I still have special plans for you,” the Huntsman replied. He pulled at his coat. “You see this? The woman you tried to stop me from taking had such a lovely hide, I had to keep a part of her with me. It is rather lovely; don’t you think?” The Huntsman smiled as Black Canary rocked back unsteadily on her feet. “I believe your skin would make a rather fetching pair of gloves, perhaps some boots if I am lucky,” he continued as he advanced on her, smirking as his words kept her off-balance.  

Black Canary shoved the rather horrible picture the man had painted into the back of her mind and focused on the fight at hand. A quick Canary Cry was dodged by the man, who then flicked his wrists and sent a pair of throwing knives directly at the Black Canary’s face. She leaned backwards, the blades missing her by a little less than an inch and came up in time to counter the Huntsman’s right hook, diverting it with her left-hand nightstick while delivering a blow to the man’s stomach. Instead of a soft thud as she had expected to hear, she heard a hollow ding as the metal stick struck metal beneath the Huntsman’s shirt and vest.  

“You’re not the only one who can upgrade their game, Canary,” the Huntsman said as he lunged forward, his putrid breath filling her nostrils. She gasped as his hands encircled her throat, thumbs pressing down hard on her windpipe. Her own hands shot up to try and pry his hands off her neck, her nightsticks clattering to the rooftop. “No Cry to save you this time,” he said quietly into her ear, and she recoiled as she felt a soft, wet object (his  _tongue_ ) slide across her cheek. She jerked her head to the side, and felt some satisfaction at his pained grunt, but it had cost her more air. Allowing herself to be forced into a kneeling position, the Black Canary scrabbled for nightstick and managed to grab the end of one of them. She swung it upward, catching the surprised Huntsman alongside the head.  

As he released his hold on her throat, Black Canary rolled away, gasping for air, holding one hand up to her throat to massage it and steadying herself with the hand holding her nightstick. She focused on her breathing, normalizing it even as her mind threatened to shut down and cause her to pass out from the lack of oxygen. As she rose unsteadily to her feet, she found the Huntsman had recovered quicker than she expected, as one hand closed around her throat again and squeezed, his other hand capturing her wrists and forcing them above her head as he pushed her to the ground, his legs pinning her own as he knelt on top of her.  

“The thing about jerking off so much, as men like myself are wont to do,” he told her quietly as she struggled to breathe, “is that our grips are quite strong. With your armor, I can’t pump my relaxant into you, but there are other ways to bring down even a woman as strong as you. You shouldn’t let your anger control you, my dear. Not that it matters.”  

Black spots were dancing in front of her eyes as she tried to pull herself free of his vice-like grip. Just as she was about to lose consciousness, a green blur tackled the Huntsman, ripping his grip from her throat. As she gasped in a shuddering breath of air, she turned her head and saw that it was Green Arrow who had tackled the Huntsman. Black Canary tried to speak, to tell Green Arrow who he was fighting, but she could barely rasp out a noise, much less speak loud enough for him to hear. As she rolled onto her side, blackness rose up to greet her and she passed out to the sounds of combat.  

**_*DC*_ **

The black helicopter, registered to a subsidiary set up by Morgan Edge and Lionel Luthor years earlier, touched down at the Starling heliport, and the promised hitman for Moira Dearden stepped off it, a duffel bag containing his gear (surveillance and combat, to be specific) slung over one shoulder. Born in Greece but raised in London by an emotionally-distant uncle after the deaths of his parents, Constantin Drakon had found his calling in life as a warrior, and after a stint in the British SAS had been cut short due to budget cuts, he had entered the world of mercenary work and found it far more appealing as he could choose his targets.  

Having had no female presence in his life growing up and limiting his relationships to visits with escorts (whom he saw as high-end prostitutes and little else) or one-night stands at hotels with bored housewives, he had very little respect for the average woman on the street. One would even go so far as to call him misogynistic, though he would take that as a compliment rather than an insult, since it would (in his mind) mean he was not burdened with the complex that women were to be treated as equals. As a result, he was often called upon to rough up the women in the lives of those his clients wanted to keep quiet or otherwise stop their actions. Morgan Edge had tapped him to come to Starling and handle roughing up Dinah Laurel Lance, as her future mother-in-law saw her as being the reason Oliver Queen was taking the actions he had in recent days.  

Personally, Drakon had only taken the job because of the irony that a woman was hiring him to rough up another woman. He had little respect for Moira Dearden, or Moira Queen, or whatever she wished to call herself. Though he had to admit, she did seem to have some skills. She had killed two of Edge’s guards and branded Edge himself with his stylized ‘M’ firebrand.  

**_*DC*_ **

_Five Years Ago_

After Laurel had been led from the tent and Oliver took a seat across from Fyers, there was a brief silence. Finally, Oliver asked, “What is it you want, Mr. Fyers?”  

“You and your girlfriend have shown a rather interesting willingness to fight for one another,” Fyers told him. “I need someone with that kind of drive to help me finish this mission, and you want to get home as soon as you can. We can help one another, Mr. Queen. If you help us flush out the two men we seek, this mission will be wrapped up soon enough and you and Ms. Lance can be on your way home.”  

Oliver eyed the man carefully. He wasn’t the best at judging when someone was deceiving him, but it seemed like the man in front of him was telling the truth. “If I were to help you, I’d need to know what I had to do before I agreed,” Oliver said firmly. “And I’d need to know Laurel will remain safe from harm.”  

“Ms. Lance will be under my personal protection, and as a result, under the protection of Mr. Wintergreen, for the duration of your stay with us,” Fyers told him. “As for what you would be doing: there are two men on this island who are not a member of our operation. The first, Yao Fei, has a part to play. It is not something you need to be aware of, Mr. Queen,” he added when Oliver moved to ask what part it was. “Irritating though he might be, he must be taken alive. The second man can be taken alive if you can manage, seeing as he and Mr. Wintergreen have some unfinished business, but if you must kill him, do so. His name is Slade Wilson; a solo operative hired to disrupt my mission here.”  

Oliver considered what he’d been told. “How do you expect me to take on either of these men?” he asked.  

“You will be taught basic survival skills, and then expelled from the camp,” Fyers told him. “Yao Fei and Slade Wilson both fancy themselves good men. They will wish to help you. Accept their help, earn their trust, and then strike.”  

**_*DC*_ **

_Present Day_

Laurel lurched up in bed, hand going to her throat as she coughed; she had been back on the rooftop, the Huntsman strangling her, and this time no one had come. “Easy,” came a voice to the side, and as she became more aware of her surroundings, she found Oliver sitting on the side of their bed, placing a hand on her right shoulder and smiling gently. “Easy,” he repeated. “You’re back in our apartment. There’s nothing here that’ll hurt you.”  

Laurel leaned back on the pillows, surprised as her body relaxed; she hadn’t even realized she had tensed up. “Thank you,” she said, very quietly, as speaking too loudly caused her throat to hurt (something she knew from past experiences). “If you hadn’t come. . .”  

“Like you said yesterday, Laurel,” Oliver told her, “we’re partners in this life, wherever it takes us. Besides, I had a little visit from the Triad myself last night. I came to check on you and found that man on top of you. We fought, and he managed to get away. He said something odd, that he would have you yet. What did he mean?”  

“That was the Huntsman, Ollie,” she told him quietly. Oliver’s eyes widened in realization as she continued, “Because we’ve fought so many times, he’s said he has ‘special plans’ for me.”  

“He’s not going to touch you,” Oliver growled out possessively. “I swore I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you and I keep failing in that. I’m going to show him what Waller taught me in Hong Kong.”  

“As much as I’d love to see that,” Laurel told him, “I want to be the one to deal with him. I’ve hunted him too long to let someone else take him out.”  

Oliver sighed. “Fine, but only because I know I won’t win this argument,” he said. “But I want to help, even if it’s just keeping him from escaping. If I’d had more jettisoning arrows, I might’ve caught him last night. I used up my supply with the Triad gang I fought,” he added at Laurel’s look of confusion.  

“What time is it?” she asked quietly.  

“It’s almost seven in the morning,” he told her. “Raisa is making you some hot chicken broth to help reduce the swelling.”  

Laurel smiled softly. “She didn’t wonder about the hand-shaped bruises?”  

“Raisa is smart, Laurel,” Oliver told her. “She probably knows exactly who we are but is doing what your Dad is.”  

“She always has been like a mother to you,” Laurel said softly. 

“More than my actual mother,” Oliver muttered ruefully. “Sometimes, I wish I’d been born into a family like yours, Laurel. A family where the parents weren’t cold, distant people who attended society parties and left it up to the maid to raise the children.”  

“Well, we’re not going to turn into that for any children we have,” Laurel said, reaching up and brushing her hand across his jaw. “We’ll show our children what a real family is like.”  

Oliver took the hand that was resting on his jaw in his hand and kissed it. “How did I get so lucky to have you in my life?” he said quietly.  

“Good people are drawn together, Mr. Oliver,” said Raisa from the door to the bedroom, a tray in her hands holding a bowl of steamy chicken broth. As she moved to the bed, she smiled softly at the two of them as Oliver helped Laurel into a sitting position and said, “Even if Ms. Laurel’s mother hadn’t met Mrs. Queen and struck up a friendship, I have no doubt you would have been drawn together; you are both good people.”  

“Thank you, Raisa,” Laurel said as the woman set the tray across her lap. “For the broth and your kind words.”  

“Don’t speak so much, Ms. Laurel,” Raisa said. “Give your voice time to heal.” She departed the room with a smile on her face.  

Oliver watched as Laurel quietly sipped the broth. “I’m going to follow up on that lead your family gave us today,” Oliver told her. “I’ll be gone most of the day since Iron Heights is quite the drive. I called Sara and asked if she’d look in on you. She thinks you’re sick,” he added. “I tried to give her something else, but she kind of ran with it.”  

Laurel groaned. “She’ll bring Mom along, you know that,” she told him. “What am I supposed to say about the bruise on my neck?”  

“Mugging?” Oliver half-said, half-asked with a shrug.  

“I’ll think of something,” Laurel sighed. “I wish you could stay, but I know this is important, finding out what got this Felicity charged with corporate espionage, especially with how cagey Moira’s been since we got back.”  

Oliver leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he told her. “You just concentrate on getting better, okay?”  

“I will,” she promised, and they shared one last, quick kiss before Oliver left. Laurel leaned back and sighed, her mind whirring as she tried to think of an explanation for the bruises around her neck. Sara would fret bad enough; Dinah would flip out and call her father, and that’d put them both in a very  _awkward_  position.  

**_*DC*_ **

Oliver sat down on the other side of the glass partition as the rather gawky man who had been there before left, looking rather down. The older man who had been on the other side had a resemblance to the man who had just left; father and son, perhaps? Oliver couldn’t say that he would have visited Robert in prison had the man lived and been convicted of whatever crimes he was guilty of. Shrugging, Oliver put it out of his mind as the woman he had come to see took her seat on the other side of the partition. Iron Heights was a rarity in its co-ed style nature of imprisonment, putting both men and women in here.  

Felicity Smoak, her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, eyed him distrustfully before she said, “You can tell your mother I’m keeping up my end. No need to send her long-lost son to check on me.”  

“My mother didn’t send me,” Oliver told her. “My fiancé’s family, specifically her sister Sara, told her about what happened to you. They don’t believe you committed any kind of espionage. I’ve uncovered things myself, and I was  _hoping_  you would tell me a bit about what you found.”  

“And have you turn right around and tell Mommy Dearest?” Felicity asked, raising her eyebrows. “No thanks, Queen.”  

“Ms. Smoak, I have reason to believe my mother is involved in something very dangerous, something that threatens the city my fiancé and I fought to get back to,” Oliver told her. “Now, you seem like a smart person. You’ve seen the news. You know there’s discord between me and my mother. Why don’t you use that brain of yours and realize I’m offering you a way to get back at the woman who put you in here? I may even be able to find a way to either clear your name, or at least find somewhere you can serve out your sentence in a more  _effective_  manner than you are currently.”  

Felicity studied him quietly, her expression shrewd and coldly calculating. After a while, she nodded quickly. “Sara’s a good person,” she said. “I don’t think she’d share my story and her belief with someone liable to run to your diabolical demoness of a mother.” Oliver’s lips quirked up at that; that was perhaps the nicest thing someone could say about Moira Queen. “When I first got the job at Queen Consolidated, I wanted to show I was a hard worker, so I would take just about any shit IT job that they gave me. A few months into my time at QC, I found files talking about some device, and building plans laid over what’s currently low-rent housing in the Glades. All of it had Mr. Steele’s name on it, as if he’d signed off on it. There were a couple more references to a Unidac Industries, but it seemed… off. I compiled a report and put it on your mother’s desk. A few days later, when I came to work, I was arrested on the spot for corporate espionage. I’ve been thinking about nothing but that night since, and I’m beginning to think Mr. Steele had nothing to do with those files, despite his name being all over them.”  

Oliver scratched at the stubble on his chin. “You’re very good with computers, from what I saw,” he said quietly. “I also know you get time with computers. Why haven’t you simply hacked your way to freedom?”  

Felicity raised her chin in a bit of a defiant pose. “I’m not my father, Mr. Queen,” she told him. “I may not have been guilty of what they convicted me of, but I’ll be damned if I hide from a punishment handed down. I would be no better than  _him_  if I did.”  

Oliver nodded. “I can understand that,” he told her. “I have some pull, Ms. Smoak, with people who can overturn your conviction. They might be willing to use your talents. You’d be working with sensitive information and state-of-the-art technology. Does that interest you?”  

“If you can pull that off, I’d be interested in anything as long as I can use my computer skills,” Felicity told him.  

**_*DC*_ **

From across the street of the building Oliver Queen and Laurel Lance had purchased with the intent to rent the remaining apartments at a discount to low income families, Constantin Drakon watched his target and a woman he presumed to be her sister. They were the only ones in the building right now; the maid had left in a cab a few minutes ago. His target looked as though she had already been roughed up a bit, so he doubted she was as skilled as the contract claimed. As for the sister, well, she was soft-looking, hardly a threat. Constantin let a small smile drift across his face. Perhaps once he was done roughing up Laurel Lance, he would have his way with the sister. Being responsible, even peripherally, for the abuse a loved one has suffered could be just as jarring as a physical attack, even for the strongest-willed people.  

**_*DC*_ **

As Laurel had predicted, Sara had fretted over her battered appearance and wanted to call Dinah, but Laurel had convinced her not to. “It was just a stupid mugging, and they didn’t get away with anything,” Laurel had argued. “I just let them get too close is all.”  

Sara had fretted a bit more but calmed down and the two sisters were now talking about the planned layout of the furniture for the loft. They had decided on dark leather couches and armchairs for the downstairs, a solid coffee table, a wall-mounted television, and leaving the windows unobstructed so they could have a glorious view of the city from the main room. The master bedroom was slated to have a nicely-carved wooden frame, a repaint for a cream-colored appearance, and light curtains for the window there. The spare bedroom would have a basic blue paint job, single twin bed, and a dresser for any long-term guests. When Laurel and Oliver decided to have children, Sara had teased, they could convert it into a nursery.  

When a knock came at the door, Sara shot her sister a curious look. “It might be someone wanting to ask more questions about the building and the pricing policy Ollie worked out with the realtor,” Laurel said. Her voice was a bit stronger, now, so she could talk for longer. The broth Raisa had gotten her that morning had worked wonders.  

“My sister the philanthropist,” Sara said, semi-jokingly, and Laurel rolled her eyes at her sister as Sara, chuckling quietly, headed to the door and opened it. “Hi,” she heard Sara say. “What can I-” The familiar sound of flesh meeting flesh was followed by a grunt, and Laurel stood, spinning to face the door as she saw her sister collapse to the ground by one of the pillars, eyes closed and moaning quietly. Her assailant appeared a moment later: tall, thin, with black hair cut short and an olive complexion to his skin, the man had the look of someone who had seen more than a few fights and come out on top.  

“Hmm,” the man said quietly, as he eyed Laurel’s fighting stance. “So, you do know something of fighting, even if you clearly aren’t that good.” As Laurel’s nostrils flared, he smiled and said, “The bruise on your neck, Ms. Lance, tells me you aren’t good enough. Now, introductions. I am Constantin Drakon. I have been hired to rough you up as a lesson to your fiancé about challenging the status quo. I must say, I didn’t expect a two-for-one deal, but I’ll take it.”  

“You won’t be touching my sister again,” Laurel bit out. “Now, if I’m such a bad fighter, let’s see you take me down.”  

“With pleasure,” Drakon told her. Drakon charged her while she waited for him to come. As he lunged forward with a right hook, she flowed to the side, turning left to avoid the strike. As his arm stretched out in front of her, Laurel grabbed it with her own hands and pivoted on her left foot, bringing her right leg back and catching him behind his right knee. The combined force of his own momentum being used against him and Laurel’s attack put Drakon into a spin, and as he came out of it, he ducked the kick she was aiming at his head. He launched a fist at her midsection, catching her in the stomach and driving the breath from her body momentarily. She danced away from his follow up attack and regained her breath.  

“Not bad,” she said, still a bit winded. “Special forces?”  

“British S.A.S.,” Drakon confirmed. “Yours appears to be a mixture. Australian special forces and Tai Chi with a hint of boxing? An odd mix. Perhaps the contract wasn’t lying after all.”  

The two moved against one another again, Laurel ducking low and lashing out with a ground-based cyclone kick, attempting to knock Drakon’s feet out from under him. Drakon leaped above her kick and landed, launching a kick of his own at her face. Laurel caught his foot in both hands twisted his foot inward, in the direction of his other leg. A popping sound and the pained groan Drakon emitted gave Laurel the confirmation that she had just dislocated her attacker’s ankle. Flipping her own legs out to catch the man’s other ankle, she tripped him up, bringing him crashing to the ground. A straight kick to temple knocked Drakon out cold.  

Laurel disentangled herself from Drakon and rushed over to her sister, who remained where she had fallen, a deep purple bruise forming on her lower left jaw. “Sara,” Laurel said quietly, placing a hand on her sister’s forehead and brushing the hair that had fallen across her eyes away, so she could see Sara’s eyes when they opened. “Sara, open your eyes for me.” She patted Sara’s right cheek, and Sara’s eyes fluttered open.  

“L-Laurel?” she mumbled, wincing as saying the name sent a jolt of pain through her jaw.  

“Just rest easy, little sister,” Laurel told her quietly. “I’m going to call Dad, he’ll send us some help. Just stay awake for me, okay?” Sara nodded, and Laurel snatched up her phone from where it sat on the kitchen counter, keeping an eye on the unconscious Drakon. She selected her father’s icon in the Contacts list and returned to Sara as Quentin picked up. “Dad, it’s me,” she said. “Sara and I were just attacked at the loft. No, I’m fine, but Sara got hit and the attacker’s unconscious.” She listened as her father said he’d be right over, and he was sending a medical unit just in case with the uniforms. She rolled her eyes as she heard him mutter under his breath about bastards going after his little girls but smiled all the same. She almost felt sorry for Drakon if the uniformed officers were the only ones here when Quentin arrived.  

As it happened, Hilton and Pike arrived with the medical unit and uniformed officers before Quentin did, so Laurel and Sara were deprived of seeing Quentin lose his nut with Drakon (both sisters had been looking forward to the possibility). Quentin arrived almost at the same time as Oliver, the latter of which was shocked to see the apartment crawling with cops.  

“Laurel?” he called and spotted her sitting beside her sister in the loveseat. “What happened?” he asked as he moved to the loveseat.  

“Your fiancé and her sister were attacked by a hitman from Metropolis,” Pike said. “We ran his prints and he was in their system. His name is Constantin Drakon.” He gestured to one of the uniformed officers, and they brought over a tablet with Drakon’s picture on it. “Do you recognize him, Mr. Queen?”  

“No, I don’t,” Oliver said.  

“He said he had a message,” Laurel said, bringing attention back to her. She shrugged. “Sorry, it just came back to me. He said he was hired to ‘rough me up’ to send a message to Ollie about not challenging the status quo in Starling. Could be some slumlord hired him, though why they went to Metropolis for a merc is another question.”  

“You seem rather well-informed about mercenaries, Ms. Lance,” Pike said suspiciously.  

“Every major city is known to have its own brand of mercenaries, Lieutenant Pike,” Laurel said firmly. “It’s not classified police information. It’s the worst kept secret of the city that we have mercenaries for hire in Starling. So why didn’t whoever sent Drakon go to one of them?”  

“It’s a good question, Lieutenant,” Lucas Hilton said before Quentin could. Pike and Quentin tended to butt heads often enough as it was.  

“We’ll look into every avenue of investigation,” Pike said. “Speaking of, just to follow procedure: Mr. Queen, may I ask where you were today? According to your housekeeper, you left early this morning.”  

“I was at Iron Heights, visiting a former QC employee,” Oliver told him. “I’m sure you’ve heard that my mother and I are at odds over my decision to not hide from reality about my father. I believed the person might have more information than what I already knew. They had little more than hearsay, nothing concrete.”  

“What was the inmate’s name?” Hilton asked.  

“Felicity Smoak,” Oliver said with a shrug.  

After the police had left, and Quentin took Sara home to Tommy (who flipped out at the fact his fiancé had been attacked by a hitman, with Malcolm finding out later), Oliver and Laurel went out on the balcony to enjoy the evening air and look out at the city lights, shining brightly around them. “So, how did it go?” Laurel asked Oliver softly. After Oliver had quietly told her everything Felicity Smoak had told him, Laurel was silent for a moment. “I think we need to reconsider how we’re handling your mother,” she said quietly. “We’ve exposed Robert and the company is going to have to do some serious damage control with the press digging into Robert now that you’ve opened the door. Your mother won’t respond well to further hammering by you, whether as Oliver or as the Green Arrow.”  

“So, what do you suggest?”  

“There’s that old saying that you attract bears or bees better with honey than with vinegar,” Laurel said. “We’ve seen people come after your mother with a straight-out attack before. I think to get the information we need, about whether she’s involved in the same thing as your father, and if she knows who the author of the List is, we’re going to have beat her at her own game. We’ll have to play the socialite role to get closer to her.”  

“Great,” Oliver muttered.  

“Leave the opening moves to me, Ollie,” Laurel told him, smiling slightly. “It’s going to require tact and a deft touch. You’re not very diplomatic and you have a startling resemblance to a bull in a china shop when you try and subtly manipulate a conversation. Sometimes a soft smile and a bit of eye contact is better than playing the grim warrior.”  

“Ah, I see Shado’s lessons are still alive and well,” Oliver said, smiling before he leaned in and kissed Laurel’s forehead. “Alright. We’ll try it your way.”  

“Now,” Laurel said, “we’ve both had a rather stressful day in one way or another, and we still have to patrol in a few hours. We both need to unwind a bit before then.” She backed towards the entrance to the apartment, pulling Oliver along and turned to walk towards the stairs, looking over her shoulder with her best “come hither” expression before focusing on the stairs. She heard Oliver’s groan of frustration and let a full-blown grin blossom across her face. It was always so much fun to wind him up like this before they both unwound.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: For those wondering, the come-hither expression is the look Laurel gave Oliver after he told her he didn’t want to be on an island anymore sometime in late Season 1. I always found that look to be provocative, for some reason.
> 
> Also, this was the original story where I decided to make Moira a bit more of a psycho…


End file.
